Harry Potter and the Clockwork Wren
by melanie.deeee
Summary: Kidnapped from Hogwarts and forced to enroll at a rival school, Harry Potter finds himself in an unfamiliar and disorienting situation, with few allies and little hope of escape. Will he be able to navigate the labyrinthine halls of Madam Simulacrium's Arcane Academy? Who is to say...?
1. Chapter 1

Harry Potter is dead. At least, that's what the people who kidnapped him want us to believe. In reality, as he was walking across the Hogwarts grounds one misty morning, angsting over his best friend's younger sister, someone gagged his mouth and tied him up with magic rope and threw him in the back of a van. The situation wasn't even as kinky as you might expect. "Where are we going?" Harry shouted at his captors in a muffled voice, which in reality sounded more like "Ffffff ff fffffnfffff ff." "We're going to Madam Simulacrium's Arcane Academy," one of the kidnappers explained from the driver's seat. And then they drove off, leaving Hogwarts behind in a shroud of mist.

Harry must have fallen asleep somewhere on the way, although he could not remember falling asleep, for they arrived much sooner than he had anticipated. Daylight streamed in as the trunk swung open, and two masked kidnappers grabbed Harry by the lapel. He tried his best to resist, tried his hardest to break free of the magic rope, but to no success. The tallest kidnapper (there must have been several, though Harry's estimation of their number changed every time he cared to think about it) slung him over his shoulder, and Harry saw that he was in a lightly-wooded area, and in the distance he could see the outline of an imposing stone wall: Harry presumed it must be Madam Simulacrium's Arcane Academy. But they didn't head toward the wall: there was a small shack nearby, at the heart of the woods. Harry flailed around pathetically, made muffled screams, but the kidnapper didn't even react. It was if Harry were a sack of grain, for all the fight he had in him. The kidnapper, flanked by several fellows, opened the door of the shack, dropping Harry to the ground, a decaying floorboard, eaten through by termites. At the centre of the shack's main room was a chute, wide enough for one person. Harry shook his head ferociously: he was about to be late for his first class of the day, back at Hogwarts, he was growing hysterical. But with a firmness, his kidnappers all grabbed a limb and rushed toward the chute, throwing him in, and Harry slid down and down, still tied up with magic rope, careening toward an unfathomable darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry slid down the chute for some time. He closed his eyes and he could faintly hear music wafting from outside: some kind of Muggle-classical symphony with soaring crescendos. He yawned. It had been a long day. But no sooner had he thought this than did a pinprick of light materialise directly below him, growing larger as he plummeted, seeming to swallow the darkness all up, just as Harry was starting to come around to it. He landed with a thud in a dank room, the air was stale, flickering torches hanging on sconces provided the only light. How had it been visible from so far below? Groggily, he brushed the dust off his Hogwarts blazer, and only now did he notice that he was no longer tied up, his mouth no longer gagged. It took him much longer to notice that there were other people occupying the room. A short fellow, with beady eyes and a crooked nose, perhaps he was a goblin, or a gnome, Harry's vision was reeling, walked up and started prodding at him with a walking stick, the ending seemed to be pointed, like a muggle bayonet. "No broken bones," the short fellow muttered listlessly. "No thanks to you," Harry cursed, relieved to have a mouth to speak with. The fellow seemed taken aback, Harry could see an impassioned response formulating just beyond his little eyes, when another voice broke in. "I'm sure he meant no disrespect," the voice assured him in a terse tone. Harry spun around. There was a woman, perhaps in her fifties, greying hair tied up in a bun, a stern demeanour chiselled onto her face, sitting at a desk, how had Harry not seen it earlier? Harry cleared his throat, bile rising to the top. "No," he muttered coarsely, "you're certainly right about that, to disrespect someone is to deny the respect they rightfully deserve, and this _gremlin_ here deserves none at all." "The sheer nerve…" the woman said shrilly. "And to think here before me stands a prospective student, someone who has come here to plead for a scholarship at this fine and exclusive academy, only to hurl _insults_ at a member of staff, albeit a lesser one?" "Plead for a scholarship?" Harry was incredulous, he could feel his entire face turning crimson. "I came here pleading for no such thing! In fact, I did not even _come_ here at all, not of my own free will!" "Then you have already dispelled such childish notions," the woman mused. "That is something, it may be of promise, but one word of wisdom does not drown out a preceding one of pettiness. Wisdom must be maintained, it must be tended to like a garden, but surely you know this." Harry could think of nothing to say. Tentatively, the little fellow approached him again, prodding at his toes with his sharpened stick. "Checking for infections," he said, and Harry wanted to lash out at him again, but in a moment, the moment before it was all too late, he held his tongue. Instead, he turned his attention once more to the stern woman. "So I presume you're Madam Simulacrium, then?" Harry said finally, keeping his voice as genial as he could possibly manage. "You presumed incorrectly," the woman snapped. "Then how do I access her?" Harry asked, sighing. "You don't," the woman explained, as if to a child. "Only students may access the Madam, and even then, it is usually through an interpreter, or an interloper. I myself have had the honour of serving as both for the Madam during my tenure at the academy, relatively brief though it may have been. She's very beautiful to look upon, and only a select few may do so, and these few must receive intensive training beforehand. Beauty is a terrible thing, at least true beauty is, and few are able to withstand it, most are content to merely glimpse at it through the reflection of a surface which dulls it. Romance, purity, rapturous notions of divinity, these ideals dull beauty's sheen and thus render it unpalatable to the unlearned. There is even an elective, now offered to the senior students of this academy – though only to the ones with exceptional grades, and even most of _these_ students drop out after one class, or two at most – that will teach this concept in greater depth than I would ever be able to, thus providing its graduates with the ability to withstand the beauty of the Madam. But you – _you_ , Herr Potter, are in no position to be offered a place in such a class." "Fine then," Harry said abruptly, having grown bored with this insipid conversation, not even bothering to inquire as to how the woman knew his name. "I'll just leave." "I'm afraid that is not possible either," the woman snapped. "For I'm afraid a snowstorm has ravaged this entire area, not three days ago, rendering it impassable." "Three days?" Harry spat out, furiously. "But I was just dragged here this morning, and there was no sign of snow whatsoever! I demand an explanation for all this!" Harry's head was starting to spin, he was beginning to grow very nauseous, the dank room whirring all around him, as if it were moving to the rhythm of the Muggle-music that was still playing somewhere nearby, but very softly, and he found himself sprawled upon the floor, and his head would have knocked against hard stone if not for the little fellow's placing his hands between Harry and the floor. "Grabbashanks," the woman commanded, unmoved by the entire scene. "It seems Herr Potter is tired. Have him moved to some temporary lodgings, at least until a more permanent situation can be worked out, pending of course the outcome of his application to this school."


End file.
